Chapter 2

Fletcher and the other guy had taken off in the Ford and left Vidic to deal with the Lincoln. He had checked the glove box and the trunk for anything containing personal information then turned his attention to the driver's seat. He had been ready to clean up any blood that had been spilled, but there wasn't any. Gibson's skin must not have been pierced in the accident. Or at least not while his heart was still beating. Vidic had smiled. That made his next task easier. He glanced across to the passenger side and noted the position on the doorframe where the impact with the big guy's head had left a bloodstain. He took a knife from his pocket, made a nick on the pad of his left thumb, and squeezed a few drops of blood onto the frame of the driver's door in a corresponding spot, only around three inches lower. He grabbed the steering wheel. The gearshift. He adjusted the rearview mirror. Prodded a bunch of climate control and entertainment system buttons. He took a cellphone from his pocket, double-checked that it was the right one, and jammed it down the side of the seat. Then he put his foot on the brake and turned the key. Nothing happened. Some kind of safety system must have shut off the ignition when the vehicle hit the tree. And isolated the fuel supply, with any luck, Vidic thought. He used his knife to pry off the cover from the gearshift release, selected Neutral, then opened the door and jumped down. He climbed into his own car, fired it up, pulled in behind the Lincoln and gave it a gentle nudge. It rolled a couple of yards and ground to a halt. Vidic leaned a little harder on the gas. The Lincoln rolled faster. It kept going this time and picked up more speed. Enough to help it bust through the safety rail and disappear into the darkness on the other side.

Vidic had stopped his car and hurried to the gap the Lincoln had made in the rail. He could see the vehicle fifty feet below, on its roof, three wheels still turning. He had stood and watched. There was no explosion. No sign of fire. He waited twenty minutes, to be sure. Then his remaining cellphone began to ring. The call was from a number he recognized. He hit the answer button and said, "Hey, Paris. What's up?"

A woman's voice came on the line. It was low and curt and a little shaky around the edges. She said, "Is it true? Gibson's dead?"

"He is. Yes. Another one bit the dust."

"It was an accident?"

Vidic didn't answer.

Paris said, "I heard he crashed his car. Broke his neck."

"You heard right."

"You saw it happen?"

"The whole thing."

"Someone was with him?"

"A stranger."

"What kind of stranger?"

"Just some nobody hitching a ride. Nothing to worry about."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Because I can't help thinking—Bowery disappears then a mystery guy shows up and just happens to hitch a ride with one of our crew?"

"Sometimes coincidences happen."

"Maybe. Or maybe Bowery grew a conscience. Ratted us out."

"He didn't rat us out. That's not his style."

"Then where is he?"

"He stiffed us, is my guess. Made the exchange and ran off with the cash."

"Why would he do that? It's pocket change next to what we've got coming. He knows what's at stake. He'd be nuts to run now. Unless he knows there won't be another payday. And how would he know that? Unless he made sure of it?"

"Even if he wanted to, he couldn't have ratted us out. He doesn't have anything on us."

"He knows about the report."

"He doesn't have a copy."

"He doesn't need a copy. He knows what it's about. Broadly speaking. He knows where I got it. Either one of those things would be enough to get every agent in the lower forty-eight crawling up our asses before we could blink."

"All right. Take a breath. Trust me. What happened to Gibson had nothing to do with Bowery. And nothing to do with the stranger."

"What happened to Gibson? So it wasn't an accident."

Vidic didn't respond.

"Gibson was a good driver. He knew that road. He wouldn't just crash his car for no reason. So the crash wasn't an accident, was it? Tell me straight."

"It was. And it wasn't."

"That's your idea of straight ?"

"Listen. I found something out about Gibson. Earlier today."

"Found out what?"

"I can't say. Not on the phone. But it has implications."

"What kind of implications?"

"First and foremost, we need to shift up our timetable."

"By how much?"

"We have forty-eight hours, maximum. Then we need to be gone. Like we never existed."

"That's not possible."

"It is. Grab what you need from the house. Just the essentials. Not so much as to be suspicious. We have the one physical job to take care of. Then we can cash in on the report later."

"The job's not happening for five days. It can't. We have to wait for the final delivery."

"No. We have to take what's there now. Eighty percent of something is better than a hundred percent of nothing. I'll talk to Fletcher. Get him to move up the schedule."

"And if he won't?"

"We'll walk."

"I don't want to walk. I set the job up. Found the opportunity. I'm invested."

"I get that. But, end of the day, that job's a luxury. It's not make or break. We have to stay focused. Think about the future. Our new lives. Not what we're leaving behind."

Paris didn't reply.

"That just leaves one loose end." Vidic glanced down at the wrecked Lincoln. He thought about the two men he'd dragged out of it. Gibson. And the giant stranger. One dead. One alive. For now, anyway. He raised the phone back to his ear and said, "I'm going to need a bunch of phosphorus. Can you bring some to the house?"

"I can try. How much?"

"Enough to burn a body. Completely. Prints. Teeth. DNA. The full nine yards."